


a sad blue-eyed drummer rehearses outside

by intothewildblueyonder



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1960s late, Beatles - Freeform, Let It Be era, M/M, Mentions Of McLennon, Ringo POV, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-14 11:29:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14135181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intothewildblueyonder/pseuds/intothewildblueyonder
Summary: It's close to the end, and all he can do is watch.





	a sad blue-eyed drummer rehearses outside

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Into White, a song I highly recommend

He's sitting outside. It's cold and beginning to rain, of-flipping-course, what else, he can remember a few seconds in the mists of '62 when English weather wasn't shit and that's _it_.

He doesn't care.

If he has to take one more second in that fucking room, with John and Paul tearing at each other to prove they don't care, they never did, _hey Paul look at this, I've got her now, I replaced you how d'ye like that-_

Well, he'll go mental. George, sensibly, has already shut himself off, away in his little bubble of sitar music and peace. 

Ringo quietly snorts. Nice to think that a bit of meditation could solve all this, make it all how it used to be.

But really, meditation ---> India is to blame for this.

(Well. Partly so. The rest, he's not sure about).

It was after India that Paul and John really came apart, kicking and elbowing the tight corners of the world they'd sewn themselves into, _just you and I_. They'd done that before - it was only reasonable that sometimes you'd want to stretch your legs. But this time it was done with a surgeon's knife, cold and wild, it was for-

No. Not for good. He doesn't want to believe it was the end. Maybe the end of the band is coming

_(What will you do when the bubble bursts?_

_Well, Paulie was thinking he might go into the circus._

_And John, with that bloody wit, he'll do fine)_

But John and Paul? They were immortal; they all were. Their music would live on after they were dead and gone. Even off in the distant future, when people drive flying cars and what have you, you'd still be able to find someone who knows the tune of 'I Want to Hold Your Hand.' They'd done their time and paid their dues and it was clear to see - they were going to _last_.

And really, wasn't that the problem? That the Beatles had become more of an idea, a reason, an excuse for them to fall apart because it would be all _right_ if there was still the music.

Until one day, there wasn't. Not to share, anyway. Compositions were held close to the chest, doled out, chunks of the record bitten off all nice and fair - _here's some for you Paul, have a bit John_. They weren't a band anymore, one and one and one and one make four, just like they weren't a family. 

That hurt Ringo more than it would the others - Paul had his wife and John his spite (he could live on that for years) and George the eternal peace of the blessed beyond _Hare Krishna_. But Ringo was the one losing his brothers, the siblings he'd wished for back in the Dingle, people to stick up for him to go around with.

Be careful what you fucking wish for.

Ringo takes a long, slow drag on his cigarette and tries to think of something more cheerful. They'd only been the Beatles for a few years, for crying out loud. How did they go from the top of the world to Twickenham Studios?

John and Paul, probably. They were the answer to everything

_(who compose half of the fab four?_

_Who are THE songwriters of the century?_

_Who are the most talented fucking lads in Britain?)_

They were angry with each other and instead of talking it out or something reasonable, they were taking it in turns to attack, to wound as only they knew how. That's how it's always been; that's the downsides of knowing someone inside and out. Sure, his friends knew how to make each other shine and _dance_ , but they also knew each other's soft spots. 

_(Who wrote this shite?_

_Say hi to Jules for me._

_They all go fucking potty for him, with those big eyes. Lucky he's got those if nothing else, hmm?)_

That's how they've been going at it all day, in fact - anything that will hurt.

You want a step-by-step tutorial? Start off with a sly dig about Linda. Hit back with a sneer or two for Yoko. Parry and thrust with this and that - _you're hopeless, this is shit, you still need her to prop you up, more of that bollocks._ Top it off with an icy silence, and what have you got?

 _I'll tell you, my friend!_ The broken remains of two men who had loved each other more than anything(one). It is getting harder to remember that, to keep a picture of how they used to be.

He thinks of Paul and John side by side, writing a song.

Of them larking around before the cameras.

Of Paul's latest song, one he'd just tested on them - _Two of Us_. For Linda. The way he'd sung it, the little hitch in his voice at _you and I have memories/longer than the road that stretches out ahead._ For Linda. Sure, Paulie, d'ye think we were born yesterday? _Just tell him you fucking miss him!_  Ringo had wanted to scream.

In the end, he wonders, was it for better or worse that John and Paul loved each other so? Sure, that love pushed them to dizzying heights, produced hit after hit, carved them out a space within the teen fan-clubs forever

_(who's this one about?_

_A shared look. Anyone, Geo._

_The birds will like it. We're good at this, Johnny._

_You can't write about love unless you know it, and had they loved each other? By God they had)_

Really, you could blame it on _how_ they loved. John, John was greedy with it. Storing up for the winter, like what did they use to do, those birds back in the days - store chests full of bric-a-brac for when they got married, so they could live in comfort. Building themselves a better future. Yeah, John had done that all right, collected and kept people who would adore him enough to stay, the more the merrier. Mothers and dead friends need not apply.

And Paul had been enough and not enough. _Great, I've got him, who's next?_

And Paul, well, Paul wanted John's love until he didn't, and he got a sick joy

_(you couldn't blame him)_

_(the girl can't help herself)_ out of that.

Being the flirty one (and getting away with it because _who couldn't love that face?_ ), seeing a different girl every night, Jane - it all said to John that the world didn't turn on his love. I can get along without you, Lennon.  

He thinks of something Paul used to say if they saw a girl at a show, one that had been pulled back to the room the night before and left ten minutes later mussed and blushing.

_I had her._

With a proud grin, looking at John, wanting him to see. John would ignore him and then be a little nicer to Eppy (who would move heaven and earth for John) or bring up Cynthia (who Ringo had known nothing about, but it seemed she put up with a lot. Because she (a) _had no choice_ or (b) _loved him and John knew it and he wanted Paul to see it_.

B, of course). 

Because they'd _had_ each other in some sense which then turned into _had_ as in _tricked_ , ha-ha, got you. _Should have seen that coming._ The old bait-and-switch, when you thought you had the friendship of a lifetime and then it turned into...

What _was_ it? Was this their relationship stretched to the breaking point, or the end?  
And which was worse?

He can't decide - would it be better to have something end, or to see that something perfect and beautiful could rot from the inside out? Jesus, these were some deep thoughts for the _funny_ Beatle.

With a sigh he stubs out his cigarette. Time to go back and face the music, no matter how fucking disjointed and _we could do better than this in our sleep_ it is.

One last picture floats though his mind - John and Paul barking into a mic. Before things went properly to shit, when it was still Lennon&McCartney not Lennon _keep the fuck away from me McCartney_. Two men in a room, spinning their magic.

_(if you're lonely you can talk to me)_

_(what's that you say boy?)_

He'll need that to get through the rest of the day; a reminder that things were better. That maybe, one day, they can be better again.

_Getting better all the time..._

At least it _can't get no worse_.


End file.
